Gone
by scarylolita
Summary: Death is a frequent visitor in the town of South Park. When he claims his latest victim, Craig acts like everything is fine; however, Kenny knows him better than that. Slash, Crenny.


**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

**Why do I always feel the need to emotionally torture Craig? And why do I always feel the need to kill off South Park characters? Someone help me.**

* * *

Last night, we were high and the room was as cloudy as my mind.

I bucked my hips and squirmed and ran my fingernails over the skin on Craig's shoulders. Each sound he let out sounded like a sob and I hate to think he was so damn miserable while fucking me raw, but that is just the way it has to be right now.

He was hurting me, but I didn't mind. There are certain kinds of pain I can tolerate just fine because I'm Kenny fucking McCormick and I die all the time. What's a little more pain? So I let him keep going, because I knew it was all I could offer him and it'll probably be like this for a while.

But like I said, I don't mind.

He is bottling everything up, because stifling emotions is what Craig Tucker does best.

This is how Craig Tucker deals with tragedy.

* * *

Here, death is no stranger.

It has been three weeks since we found out about what happened.

Craig and I were sitting in his room getting stoned, when suddenly the phone rang. After he answered the call, I watched his facial expression change. However, as soon as the emotional was there, it was gone.

For a split second, I thought he was about to green out, but it wasn't that. Though I didn't know it at the time, I had just watched his heart break. He stopped moving. He couldn't even open his mouth.

"Dude, what is it?" I asked.

No reply.

I stood up and took the phone from him, saying, "Hello?"

"Who is this?" a solemn, feminine voice asked.

"Er… It's Kenny McCormick," I said.

"Oh… Kenny," she replied distantly. "It's… Tweek's mother."

"Is everything okay?" I asked, somewhat worried. Why would she be calling Craig?

"Tweek…" she paused, letting out a string of sobs. "My baby… He's… I just called Craig to t-tell him… He deserved to know… They… They were close right?"

She didn't even have to tell me what happened, because the things she was saying made it obvious.

Tweek killed himself.

I feel bad to say it, even in my head, but I think a lot of us seen it coming. Living was something he struggled with.

His mother continued to cry to me over the phone and I didn't know what the hell to do.

"I'm so sorry," I choked out, trying to comfort her as best as I could, even though I knew nothing I did would make things okay.

Craig continued to stand still, with his arms limp at his sides. His expression was neutral. Any other person would have assumed he was fine, but to me, it was obvious that he wasn't.

"Craig," I said softly after hanging up the phone.

He was silent.

I gave his shoulder a slight shake, and he made a face. "Don't," he murmured, shaking me off. His voice was gravely and wet, but he didn't cry. I could tell how hard he had to try to hold it all in.

His best friend just died, of course he's allowed to cry – but he refused to.

He still won't.

It's as if by crying, he'll be forced to admit what really happened. He'll be forced to admit that his best friend is dead and he'll never see him again.

"Craig," I repeated his name again. "You're not okay… Don't pretend you are."

"Fuck off, _McCormick_," was all he said before kicking me out of his house.

* * *

The funeral was awful – full of people who blamed themselves and full of people who wished they could have helped their friend. What people don't understand is that if a person doesn't realize they need help, then it's not possible to help them. Tweek never spoke about the things that were wrong in his life. Similar to Craig, he liked to pretend things were okay even when they weren't.

Clyde could barely stand up straight he was crying so hard. Bebe tried to comfort him, all while trying to hold herself together. Stan and Kyle looked saddened, and Eric looked like he didn't really care either way because that's just the way he is. Craig looked empty – like there was nothing left inside.

I stood next to him the entire time, but his expression didn't change once. He looked stony eyed as they lowered the coffin and he looked stony eyed as Tweek's mother threw herself on top of it, wailing about how her baby boy didn't want to die, how he wanted so desperately wanted to overcome his illness and live.

I soon closed my eyes, because it hurt to see, but the sound of her sobbing was just as bad.

I guess sometimes people's lives don't always go the way they want. Sometimes emotions are strong enough to destroy a person. Sometimes people get sick and they don't get better.

That day, it was something we all learned for the first time.

* * *

Craig hardly notices me when I enter his room. At this point, I'm sure his mind is breaking out of paranoia and he is slowly becoming more and more aware. He is shaking, scratching holes into his arms, making me wonder about what other substances he's been taking.

I sit down beside Craig, who makes quiet murmuring sounds in an attempt to keep his composure… or maybe just to keep himself conscious. On the side table next to him, I spot a half empty bottle of whisky.

"Craig, you okay?" I ask, though I know he's not. I guess I'm just wondering if he's finally willing to admit it.

But, of course, there's no answer. There never is.

He's just sitting there, staring wide eyed at what looks like nothing in particular. I throw a pillow his way and the glass cup he's holding falls, dripping onto the sofa and floor. He doesn't notice, so he doesn't get angry. He still doesn't notice as I fetch a towel and start to clean it up, and even after the mess is gone, the smell of liquor lingers.

"Craig?" I say his name again. "Goddammit, Craig… Just answer me…"

Still nothing.

I give him a hard smack across the face, trying to make him snap out of whatever weird sort of trance he's in.

"Ow," he mumbles, slack jawed, pressing a palm to his cheek. "Dipshit…"

"Sorry," I say, "but you weren't listening to me."

He murmurs something I don't quite catch. Probably another insult.

I disregard it and sigh, "You can't keep doing this. It's not healthy."

Nonetheless, I sit down and join him. Soon enough I'll be just as drunk as he is.

Craig audibly swallows a sob, making the most miserable sound I've ever heard. It'll happen soon. He can't hold it back any longer. Any moment know he'll start crying, but he'll still try hard not to.

I've never seen Craig cry before. I don't think anyone has. He tries hard only to let people see the parts of him he wants them to see.

What a fucking miserable existence.

"Kenny," he says weakly, biting his upper lip.

"Yeah?" I ask, using my gentlest voice.

"Kenny…" he says again, his voice cracking apart. He gives me a helpless look, covering his mouth with his hand, like the shock of it all is finally setting in and he's finally realizing Tweek is dead. He wilts, letting out a soft keening sound.

I see the tears pooling in his eyes and I see how hard he's trying not to blink and let them fall.

"Let it out, Craig," I whisper.

And, with every inch of him trembling, he does.

I honestly never thought I'd live to see Craig Tucker looking like this, and I hate it.

"Oh, God," he sobs, looking like he's finding out about it for the first time, like he's finally allowing the reality of it all to sink in. "He's… he's…"

"Shh," I say softly, moving closer to him and pulling him towards me. I'm not going to tell him that it'll be okay. I'm not going to tell him that it'll all be fine because right now it's not and that's what matters. He doesn't need to hear about the future - he doesn't need to hear about the next day, the next month, the next fuckin' year… So I simply tell him, "You don't need to talk anymore."

And he doesn't, he just cries into my shoulder and claws at the material of my shirt. He cries until he is nearly screaming, forcing all his agony out into the open.

I tighten my arms around him as he shakes and coughs and sobs.

I wish grief wouldn't eat people up the way it does.

* * *

Eventually, Craig moves away from me and tries hard to collect himself - to put that mask back in place.

"He was a great friend," I whisper.

I let out a breath, grabbing the bottle of whisky and taking a long sip. I pass the bottle over to Craig and we both drink until we're no longer shaking.


End file.
